two people in a studio is kinda nice, now that i think about it

Ted’s out of town all weekend, and I have the house to myself for two nights and three days.

I can do whatever I want.

I can eat baguette with tomato and hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise for dinner. . . again. . . without worrying that someone else will be tired of that. And I can eat almost an entire bag of chocolate cookies and watch that movie about childbirth that everyone else has seen. . . but not at the same time because Ricki Lake, naked in a bathtub, isn’t exactly appetizing. I can get up whenever I want and watch So You Think You Can Dance in fastforward and Father of the Bride and In Her Shoes (again) and drink coffee and call my mom from bed. I can braid my hair and unbraid my hair and braid my hair. . . until my arms are tired. I could even give in to my compulsion to cut hair. . . and I still might. I can Google diamonds and what kind of house we could buy if we moved where my parents live. I can leave magazines and bobby pins and chip clips and the remote in bed. I can take as long as I want to get dressed; I don’t have to get dressed until 5:30 if that’s what I want to do.

I guess there are trade-offs.

No one will turn off the lights when I fall asleep reading, and I’ll wake up at 4:38 with the lamp on. And no one will have park breakfast with me by the Peter Pan statue, and if I went alone, no one would protect me from the persistent squirrels. And I won’t have a dance party partner except for my reflection in the television. And I might even have to take the trash out myself.


p.s. i cut my hair. um, kind of a lot. i had my scissor privileges revoked regularly when i was a child.


wedding of the century

Ted caught the bouquet. To keep if from hitting the floor, he says. With an outstretched arm and a measure of decisiveness, I say.

Maybe it was just a matter of perspective.

Boys can catch the bouquet, by the way, in Connecticut, where Grandmas can also marry their girlfriends in sweet ceremonies where the justice of the peace cries and the kids, grownups for all appearances, sneak rice from the restaurant kitchen in two coffee cups, to ensure a proper send-off.

We brought the cake and got in a fight in the car. We fight like my parents. That’s disturbing, but not altogether uncomfortable.

It feels familiar.

We made up after the party started. There were quick kisses and whispered apologies. It was a celebration of love, after all.

Then there was toasting and lunch and Ted clobbered his cousins so he could snatch that bouquet.




"Are you really going to do this?"
"What else are boyfriends for?"

Sleep-faced and slow-talking, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him cradle airlift me to bed.

I could wake up. And this could all be a dream.


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“Wait. Doesn’t Ted care that you are out with me?”
“That would be hypocritical. And I’m with you. And. . . and we live in a studio. We’d go crazy if we didn’t leave once in a while.”

I had escaped with Pete into the well-air-conditioned world of an electronics showroom with comfortable sofas in Columbus Circle after a quick bite of Whole Foods sushi on what was not just the hottest day of the year, but the hottest day in six years. We were both sporting electric 3D glasses and settled in for a past-due chat about his recent write-up in a big publication and his current status with his (crazy) girlfriend and other Important Things.

“Well. . . No. . . . You wouldn’t worry about that.”
“About what?”
“You don’t worry about ending up with someone just because it’s there and you think you owe it to them.”
“I used to, but not anymore.”

The afternoon before was spent with John, who was in town for a few days and soon introduced to the oasis of the Temple of Dendur which, located inside the Met and with a view of the park, is the best place on the Upper East Side to spend an unrelentingly hot day.

Ted would have joined us, but let me go alone to catch up with an old friend when I decided that would probably be better. He went to the zoo and kept cool at the movies.

I love him and he knows. And I know that love is better when it’s more about trusting than about possessing. And we both know that you can’t keep love if you squeeze it too tight.



i haven't cleaned up the aftermath of the sink being fixed, so we are ordering in

"What are you gonna get?"
"Vegetable biryani."
"Isn't that what you got last time?"
"You love getting the same thing."
"Remember that time I got something new and it tasted like a bathroom air freshener?"



We had to change laundries because it seemed like the strange frilly knickers we were getting back might somehow correlate to my sudden shortage of underpants.

Our savings account earned three cents, but is seeming more real this months as it is now four digits.

We go for walks and watch Hell’s Kitchen.

And the sink is broken. It was draining slow, then not at all, then working again. And finally it began silently regurgitating filthy brown water. The super’s number, stored in my phone, usually a direct line to a crabby wife, is being answered by a woman named Susan. My landlord answered one email and has since been MIA.

The dirty dishes are piling up, but it’s too hot to cook anyway.


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My mom said, “Well that’s what happens when you have a boyfriend.”

I stepped on a scale at Bed, Bath, & Beyond. The number shocked me, and in the nanosecond of terror, my handbag and two bathmats ejected from my sides in an effort to get it under control. My first thought was, Why didn’t anyone tell me?

“Remember after Aunt Stacy married Mac and she woke up one morning and instead of getting on her treadmill, she thought, I don’t have to do this anymore, and she got back in bed?”

The scale was broken. I didn’t actually gain thirty pounds without noticing and with my clothes still fitting.

I’ve gained 7 pounds in the year-and-a-half I’ve known Ted, along with a general, all-over softness. I’m weighing in at a whopping 112 pounds, and I like to think I’ve earned my jiggle.


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count 'em

This makes six, I think. Not counting the implied intent of starry-eyed and slightly delusional boyfriends or bums.

There was one hand-written on three-lined paper, circa 1986. Three that one wild month junior year of college. One on an airport shuttle about five years ago.

“When are you getting married?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my boyfriend.”
“You can get married whenever you want.”
“You want to get married, you let me know. You can get married whenever you want.”

One sesame bagel, toasted, with veggie cream cheese and a side of self-esteem, thanks.


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